Signs
by ThexInvisiblexGirl
Summary: Another take on the All Things aftermath: Mulder is feeling insecure upon waking up alone. Please R&R!
1. Part I - Mulder

**Signs**

 **Part I – Mulder**

His first lucid thought is that it's all been a dream.

He wakes up cold and alone, with certain weariness he hasn't felt in years, one which he knows has nothing to do with jet lag. It takes a while for the room to swim into focus. For a moment, panic sets in. His alarm hasn't gone off and he will be late to work. Then the craziness of the previous day dawns on him. He remembers the mad rush to Heathrow to catch an earlier flight, the journey back to DC. He remembers tea, a conversation into the night, a disrupted slumber. Everything is completely foggy; he honestly can't decide if what he thinks happened next has indeed happened, or if it's all in his head. Won't be a first time.

And yet.

His bed may be empty, but the pillow next to his is creased. When he presses his nose to it, it smells like her. His sheets smell like her, like _them_. He holds the covers to his chest, as though to retrieve the warmth of her body against his. He closes his eyes, lets the scent wrap around him, and listens. There's no sound of soft breathing, no footsteps; there's no smell of fresh coffee brewing. He really is alone. The affirmation hits him like a punch.

He can't say he's surprised. On the contrary; he would have been astonished if, upon opening his eyes, the first thing he saw was a pallid shoulder, a mess of red hair. If realizing she has indeed spent the night is strange, waking up beside her would have been a far stranger concept. His lips curl in a sad smile. Luckily, it's not something he'll have to handle this time around. He sighs and sits up, then leans back against the bed board, looking down at the abandoned pillow. Just this once, he wishes he hasn't known her so damn well.

Picking up his phone is an instinct, but he places it back on his night stand before he even hits the first digit. He can't call her. Escaping like she has at the crack of dawn means she's wanted to avoid facing the aftermath, possibly even coming to terms with what happened. More to the point, she's wanted to avoid _him_. Calling her will be to go against her wishes, and he wants her to know that he respects her decisions; now more than ever.

But if only she could leave him some sort of a sign – a note, some item of clothing she's intentionally left behind, anything to assure him that the previous night has meant to her as much as it has to him. He's wanted this for so long, and now that it finally happened, he finds himself anxious, powerless against the consequences. The only evidence for her being there, he suddenly realizes, is a pair of tea mugs in his sink. One of them will still carry the mark of her lipstick. It's a good a sign as any, he supposes, holding on to what he can. Nonetheless, her absence speaks volumes. He really wishes she's stayed.

He now remembers he has initially meant to skip work today, a conscious decision he has made upon arriving at DC the previous afternoon. Even though he's so exhausted it physically hurts, he is dressed and ready to leave in less than fifteen minutes. It is not yet seven as he locks his apartment door and heads towards the elevator. He doesn't remember much of the drive to work, and so after pulling into a parking space at the Hoover building, he heads back into the street. On a Starbucks across the road he treats both of them to caramel lattes, knowing full well the frown she will aim at him. He shruggs and pays for the coffees anyway. As he waits, he's leafing through the morning paper without really reading any of the headlines. The teenager who serves him the coffee butchers his name beyond belief, but he can't even find the energy to care.

The closer he gets to the basement, the more he feels the adrenaline begin to rush back in and work its magic on him. Her scent hits him as soon as he exits the elevator. He smiles goofily. It's the same scent that has overpowered his bed this morning. He doesn't know how long she's been there, but it doesn't matter. He's relatively early himself, and the fact she's beat him to the office only points to her own restlessness. Whether it's a good sign or a bad one, he cannot say. The only thing he knows for certain is that the previous night has been a crossroad of sorts. He, for one, doesn't regret it. If her leaving means that she does, if she now attempts to rationalize it as he suspects she's going to do, he will just prove her wrong. After all, hasn't he been doing just that for a little over seven years now?

She's standing by the open filing cabinet, wearing a dark jacket and a narrow skirt. It's a different skirt than the one she's worn last night. He knows, because he's pretty sure one of its top buttons is still somewhere under his bed. At the time, his apology met a breathless, dismissive giggle. Now he idly wonders if she owns an army of skirts, all hanging neatly in her wardrobe. She is all but hunched over the cabinet with her back turned to him, looking for something. However, as the door creaks further open, she turns with a start. A gasp escapes her lips as their eyes meet briefly. She's the first to look away.

"Hi." It comes out more timidly than he's intended, and for a moment he's as shy as a schoolboy. She's wearing a soft pink top he's only seen her wear once before. She looks beautiful, radiant. For a moment he forgets what he's meant to say. His heart is racing. He takes a deep breath and hopes she doesn't notice how nervous he is. "I thought this was my office," he uses that old joke again, grasping at anything familiar and comforting.

She laughs softly, and it's a different sound than ever before. Her cheeks are flushed bright pink; he can't help but wonder if he's blushing too. "I didn't think you'd be in today," she tells him casually enough, but her voice trembles ever so slightly.

"Yeah, I know, I was... just feeling a little lost, I guess." He finishes with a meaningful look that deepens her blush. He hasn't meant to say that, knowing his sincerity might make her shut out to him, but he doesn't want to play games, not with her. It seems pointless to waste even more time over those.

All of a sudden he remembers the coffee, and pushes the two cups forward, wordlessly offering her one. She seems genuinely surprised by the gesture, but murmurs a thank you and reaches forward. Their fingers brush against one another's for the briefest of moments, but it's long enough to bring back every sensation from the other night. Locking his gaze with hers, he can tell the same thought has crossed her mind.

"I wish you stayed," he whispers, unintentionally honest again. She breaks their gaze and lowers her head, then changes her mind and looks up at him.

"I regretted it as soon as I got to my car."

The affect of the words is staggering. He's known the possibility existed and has been preparing himself for it throughout the drive here, and even though he has managed to convince himself otherwise in the meantime, it hurts like hell to hear her confirm his worst fear. At least she's come right out and said it; a small kindness of her behalf.

Before he can further wallow in despair, though, she sighs. "Shit. No. That came out wrong. I meant..." Uncertainty melts into laugher; it reaches the corners of her eyes. He's still bitter, but holds his tongue. "I meant I regretted leaving as soon as I got to my car. Not last night."

The three last words are said in haste, an afterthought, as if she thinks she hasn't been clear enough. The only reason he needs to hear those words is because they're so damn unbelievable. He's so stunned he doesn't even know where to begin. He mentally repeats them in his head. She doesn't regret it. By her own admittance, she doesn't regret it. He's expected her to come up with an excuse about what's happened or ignore it altogether, but she does neither. He's surprised that he's even surprised. Once again, she keeps him guessing.

It's as if she's more at ease now that her confession is out of the way. She keeps on speaking and he holds on to her every word. "I'm sorry if I've given you the wrong impression by leaving like this. I didn't think... I don't know what I thought," she admits, blushing yet again. He doesn't even get a chance to respond when she looks at the coffee she's still holding, then at him. "I'd ask what's the occasion, but I suppose that's..."

"It just... felt right," he replies. "Not your usual though," he adds, so as not to linger on the various meanings his previous statement folds. He suddenly wishes he's stuck with her regular order. This is so strange; being with her has always been as easy as breathing. Now he feels as if he's stepping on eggshells. Things have never gone so awkward between them, not even a few months earlier, when she has asked him to father her child.

"That's alright. Changes are a good thing."

He can hardly believe his ears. It's almost as if she's a different woman. Is this supposed to be the sign he's been yearning for? He feels like laughing aloud, but there's something in the air he doesn't dare breaking. Discomfort has shifted into something else entirely. He steps closer; she doesn't step back, and he takes it as encouragement. Locking gaze with her once more, he reaches for her cup and places it on the desk, then does the same with his own cup. With her reassurance still ringing in his ears he's feeling rather brazen, and lets his fingers flutter against her cheek. She's leaning into his touch briefly. Her eyes are so remarkably blue he's about to say something cliché, but then she shakes her head.

"Not here."

He smirks. "Nobody down here but the FBI's most unwanted, remember?"

"All those years of paranoia flew right out of the window after just one night?" She nods towards one of the flame detectors on the ceiling, which was probably bugged again as soon as they reclaimed ownership on the tiny office space after Jeffrey Spender was shot there.

He sighs. She does have a point. It takes everything he's got to lower his hand, to not place it against her waist instead. "You're right."

She nods, but she's obviously crestfallen as well. She turns away from him for a second, retrieving the cups from the desk. He sips his coffee absentmindedly and watches her as she takes a sip as well. Silence hangs between them, heavy and strange. There's so much that needs to be said, so much to figure out. Mostly he just wants to kiss her again, and run his fingers through her hair, and let her know just how much he –

He blinks once, twice; the office suddenly appears hazy. As his muddled gaze meets her concerned one, he realizes he must have dozed off for a second.

"Seriously, Mulder, why are you even here? You must be dead on your feet."

But how can he tell her that he couldn't stay at his apartment, not while believing she thought the previous night was a colossal mistake? That he couldn't go back to sleep fearing he has lost her for good? That for one crazy moment he even believed she had left in a hurry in order to go to that Waterston guy at the hospital and get back together with him?

The warm touch of her hand shakes him out of his reverie. "Everything's fine," she assures him as if she can read each and every one of his fears. Knowing her, she probably can. "Why don't you go home and get some rest? I've got everything under control here."

The idea is tempting, especially since he's already considered it, but he's still hesitant. And he wants to stay with her. So long as they're at work, she won't be able to just take off.

"Look, we need to talk about this," she says, and there's certain pleadliness to her tone. He knows she's right. As right as this feels, they will need to have that talk. This has been years in the making, but he has a feeling that the previous night has caught them both off guard. "But we can't talk seriously if one of us keeps falling asleep on the other."

"I kind of liked the way it turned out the other night," he quips, and luckily she cracks a smile at his lame joke. Something inside him melts. He moves closer again and cups her cheek, dismissing her warning glare. "I don't care who's watching," he murmurs. He lets his nose brush against hers before he leans closer and their lips meet.

She's hesitant at first, but her lips are so soft he doesn't care. As soon as he feels her resistance begin to waver, a loud shrill tears into the silence. They break off with a gasp. She buries her head in his dress shirt; his hands rest against the back of her neck. It takes him a moment to stir his mind back in the right track, and a moment longer to realize the unrelenting shrill comes from the landline on the desk. He's about to reach for it when she stops him, and picks it up herself.

"Yeah, Scully," she breathes into the receiver. Her cheeks are flushed. He flashes a crooked grin at her, undeterred by her glare, and leans against his desk. "Yes, Sir. No, I'm here, I was just…"

She's turning her back on him as if his very presence is a distraction to her. He can't help feeling a little smug. He's having too much fun watching her squirm as she's speaking to their boss.

"No, I'm not expecting to hear from him today at all." She throws him a look from over her shoulder and so he realizes she's referring to him. "No, Sir," she says stone faced, lying to Skinner as if she does this on a daily basis. "No problem, I'll get right on it. Yes, Sir."

She hangs up and lingers for a moment before she turns to face him again. A tiny smile betrays her supposedly cool exterior. "I just told Skinner you're due back tomorrow evening, so you better get out of here before anyone else sees you."

He just stares at her in utter astonishment. "Who are you?"

He only realizes he's asked it aloud when she smiles sheepishly and closes the small distance between them again. She wraps her arms around his neck; her nearness is intoxicating. "How about you try to figure that one out over dinner? Say... my place, 7PM?"

Her whisper is seductive, her breathing hot against his neck. He gulps. "Are you serious?" Even as the signs accumulate, from some reason he's still uncertain. He keeps expecting her to laugh in his face and take it all back. Only she doesn't. Her smile widens an inch.

"Why don't you be there and find out?"

Too stunned to form a full sentence, he just nods.

"Good," she nods with satisfaction, and removes her arms from around his neck. He holds back a protest. She's back to practical mode now, returning to the cabinet, stuffing a few files into her briefcase. "I have to go to Quantico for the day. You're going straight home."

He scoffs. "Right. Like there's any chance I'll be able to sleep _now_."

She places her hands on her hips and looks him over. "Are you even well enough to drive yourself home?"

"I can always crash back there," he jokes, nodding toward the back part of their office. She doesn't even smile.

"Home. Now. No arguments."

"Okay, okay, gee. I sleep with you once and you get all bossy."

He holds his breath, realizing a second too late he might have gone too far with this one. Her expression is priceless, a cross between horror and mirth. Sure enough, though, she swiftly snaps out of it and shoots him her infamous look. "Unless you want your actual boss to catch you down here, you'd better move it, Mulder."

"Alright, I'm out of here."

He's about to leave, but then changes his mind and walks over to her. She looks at him inquisitively as he reaches for her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles. "Just to let you know," he tells her, "if you're expecting me to disappear in the middle of the night... Not going to happen."

She gives him that soft smile again. "I really hope not."

They hold each other's gaze for a long moment. There's silence again, but one that he's familiar with, the one that always speaks best for them. He gives her hand another squeeze before he slowly, reluctantly, lets go. "I'll see you later," he says and leaves the office.

To his surprise, he sleeps for six hours straight, and when he wakes up he's just lying there, staring at the ceiling. He's feeling calm and rested, and completely at ease. He has slept off his anxieties; his fears and doubts are all gone. _Everything's fine_ , her assurance becomes a mantra as he gets ready for what he can only term as their date. He cracks a smile at the foreign concept. Who would have thought?

Dusk slowly falls on Washington DC as he drives the familiar route to Georgetown. Normally he doesn't like driving with music on, but at the moment he's too restless, so he's turning on the radio. There's an Elvis song on, and he chuckles. Another sign? He can never have enough of those. As confident as he is about this, about them, no affirmation will ever be enough. As he drives along, he finds himself murmur the lyrics along with the King, each word brings him closer to the place he wants to be, the place where he belongs.

 _Take my hand,_

 _take my whole life too,_

 _for I can't help falling in love with you._


	2. Part II - Scully

**A/N: Signs was originally planned to be a oneshot, but Scully all but demanded her voice to be heard, and so this second part came to be. As of now I don't plan to continue beyond these two parts, but who knows! I'm not making any promises now. Big thank you once more to** _ **The White Masque**_ **for helping me bring this second part to life. Happy reading! Feedback is love!**

* * *

 **Part II – Scully**

The road stretches ahead of her, thankfully not as clogged with traffic as it has surely been half an hour before during rush hour. Nonetheless, in her current state of mind, even the hour drive ahead of her seems endless. She turns on the radio only to turn it off a moment later, not finding anything to her liking. She drums her fingers on the steering wheel impatiently, smiling inwardly at her giddiness. She's grateful to Assistant Director Skinner for sending her on a series of consultations at Quantico. Unbeknownst to him, today even the morgue is a blessed distraction as far as she's concerned.

She thinks back of what has occurred in the office a short while ago, and her smile breaks into the surface. She was such a fool, fleeing from his apartment the way she had. She should have known it would throw him into a frenzy of misery and guilt, make him doubt himself. Thinking back of it now, she isn't sure what has made her want to leave. Fear of dealing with the aftermath, or rather pure logic and the need to shower and change before work? What has she expected him to make of her hasty flight, whatever her motive? Like she has told him, she doesn't know. The only thing she knows for certain is that she doesn't regret what's happened the previous night.

It's not as if it has come as a big surprise. It had been years in the making, after all, beginning to push to the surface after he kissed her on New Year. To this day, she remembers everything leading to that kiss, every detail of it; the softness of his lips, the glint in his eyes, the warmth spreading through her. She had never been a believer in that kind of stuff – no; that had always been always Melissa's forte – but right after it happened, she couldn't shake the feeling that this was some sort of a sign. Of what she wasn't quite sure yet, nor did she care. She could make sense of it later.

He kissed her again as she dropped him off at home that night. It was barely a kiss, not very different than the more traditional one they had shared an hour or so earlier. He was obviously testing his limits (and hers), and from reasons she couldn't quite name, she went along with it. She didn't exactly kiss him back, but she didn't reject him either. As he pulled away a few seconds later, he smiled sheepishly. "Okay?" he asked, and she knew he wasn't going to say anything further. In seven years, they had come to master wordless communication; she knew exactly the questions embodied in that one single word. She nodded, returning his shy smile. And that was how it began.

It was hardly a fiery romance or anything that came close. They just sort of found more and more excuses to spend time with one another outside the line of work. They went out for drinks several times after work. He introduced her to his favorite bar downtown. During a random conversation they had there, she was shocked to discover he had never watched _Cheers_ , her favorite show of all time. He had never got the chance, he claimed, and she took it unto herself to educate him on the subject. Those evenings by the television, watching _Cheers_ reruns and taking turns in introducing their favorite films to one another, turned out to be their favorite pastime. For the most part, she fell asleep halfway through the films he had chosen, and he teased her endlessly about it. One time he took her to a football game, telling her he owed her one for the Vikings vs. Redskins they had missed years ago while on a case. Not caring for the sport itself in the slightest, she let him buy her hot dogs and cheap beer and tried to follow the rules of the game as he laid them out to her, as patiently as if he was speaking to a child. She was astonished to realize she was actually enjoying herself.

Slowly but assuredly, she was unraveling a whole new side to him, one she believed had been long gone, dimmed by years of gloom and paranoia, and she liked what she had uncovered. As her partner, he'd always been protective of her, but now there was this tenderness to him as well. She assumed it was his way of making up for the time he couldn't spend with Samantha. It hadn't slipped her mind that she and his sister could have been of similar age. As he let his defenses drop, she found herself opening up to him like she had rarely done with another person, let alone with him. They never discussed the shift in their relationship or questioned it. They sort of just… let things unfold. It didn't really amount to anything – cuddling, hand holding, the occasional kiss good night by the door.

That is, until the night she returned from her meeting with Dr. Parenti, devastated to learn that she would never be able to bear children. She managed to remain calm and collected on the way home, somehow convincing herself this wasn't the end of the world. It was only upon seeing him, the pure hope reflected in his enquiring gaze, that she finally broke down. _Never give up on a miracle_ , he contradicted her when she lamented her loss. His optimism couldn't fool her, though. She noticed the way the light in his eyes dimmed, the way his shoulders sagged ever so slightly as he held her. Despite his initial fear that the procedure and its consequences would come between them, he had become so invested in it. As she sobbed in his arms, she couldn't help but wonder if the idea of becoming a father hadn't grown on him in the meantime. Not that it mattered. It would never be, now.

When she kissed him that night, he wasn't the only one caught off guard. For the most part, he had initiated any sort of physical contact between them thus far. It seemed to always have been the case, not just in the passing weeks. She didn't really know what came over her. Well, actually, she kind of did. Suddenly the soft kiss he'd laid against her forehead wasn't comforting enough. She needed more. Despite what he once told her, what he believed, he got it all completely wrong. He was the one making her a whole person. He was _her_ constant, _her_ touchstone, and not the other way around. He was the only solid thing remaining as everything else was collapsing around her. He seemed taken aback as she clung to him ardently, but was obviously more than willing to oblige. She knew he would deny her nothing.

Gone were the chaste, gentle kisses she had come to know and cherish. That kiss had a different edge that frightened her. If they were ever able to finish that broken kiss from his hallway, it would taste much like this one, dark and desperate and wrong. It felt as if anything magical they had meticulously constructed in the past few weeks was crushed by the intensity of this one fervent kiss. She knew this was not how she wanted to go about this.

With this realization now echoing within her, she pulled away abruptly. "I can't do this," she breathed. She touched her thumb to his bottom lip and looked up at him imploringly, trying once more to speak to him without words, to explain to him why this could not be. He never questioned her sudden change of heart, nor did he seem to resent her for it. He sat vigil by her bedside that night without her having to ask him to, and she returned the grim gesture a few weeks later when his mother took her own life, but they had never mentioned what could have happened that night at her apartment, what would have happened if she hadn't stopped it.

She was in a very dark place following the failing procedure. She mostly kept to herself, pushing him away although he was clearly distraught as well. Whether his somberness was the result of his grief over his mother's death or frustration at his inability to comfort her, she couldn't say, and she was too wrapped up in her own darkness to care. There was certain irony to the situation. While the IVF brought them closer together, its aftermath made them drift further apart. There was this constant tension between them now, one which culminated after she had gone on a ride with the cigarette smoking bastard. His apparent inability to forgive her this one indiscretion frustrated her more than it enraged her. The least he could do was put equal amount of trust in her as he'd expected her to put in him all these times he had ditched her for similar purposes.

He couldn't for the life of him understand how come she had agreed so willingly to go on a road trip with the man who, for all they knew, was the very reason of her bareness, and yet so adamant on not joining him on his trip to England to investigate crop circles. She, on her end, thought he was being unnecessarily harsh, and so she was twice as stubborn and rebellious, knowing it would infuriate him. Having done this before once or twice, she knew just which buttons to push. She wanted to spite him. It felt empowering. She was glad he was going. They could use the distance. They were at each other's throats too often these days; maybe now she would be able to breathe more easily.

Little did she know what she would face in his absence. The biggest sign of all – an alternative. Her short encounter with Daniel Waterston was an affirmation that the path she was on had indeed been the right one, despite her hesitations and the resentment of her loved ones. Once reassured, everything else became incredibly lucid, like pieces of an intricate puzzle finally falling into place.

It was tricky, nighttime. Darkness brought dangerous thoughts to the surface, changed perspectives, intensified desires. Or maybe it was just easier to blame it on the moonlight. Maybe it was her. She was in a strange mood ever since he had left for England. Those three days without him were… interesting was one way to put it. And then, strange serenity at the sight of him; completion. Apprehension shifted into absolution. From thereon in, everything was mostly a blur: tea and a late night conversation, confession and comfort, waking up alone but not lonely. And finally, the thing she had yearned to do and the thing she ended up doing became one and the same, at last.

By the time she arrived at the office, her head was throbbing with changes and lack of sleep. She didn't expect him to show up there barely half an hour later. She had honestly believed he was exhausted enough to stay home. He wasn't due back from England for at least two days anyway as far as anyone else was concerned. She should have known he would be as restless as she had become as soon as she left his side. Needless to say, having him there made what little left of her self control fly out the window. Somewhere between the previous night and that morning, it was as if the dark time had never existed, as if they picked up right where they had left off all these weeks before. Both free of ghosts and personal demons, they were finally ready to face whatever this was.

Everything looks so different on daylight. It offers a certain amount of clarity, a rude awakening of sorts. Everything seems safer with no monsters lurking in the darkness. It is easier now to be completely honest with herself and surmise that it was fear that drove her away like a thief in the night. She knew him better than he'd known himself. She knew his relentlessness, his passion – all those traits that made her fall for him in the first place. She knew he would throw himself into their new circumstances entirely, but she couldn't. Her head just didn't work that way. It feels foolish now, this dread, because she has never felt so confident about any decision in her life. While second guessing has become second nature, a necessary means of survival while working on the X Files, there's none of it this time. She almost feels like a new person. She could tell it caught him off guard as well; he kept looking at her as though he'd expected her to laugh in his face and take it all back. She chuckles softly at the thought. Not a chance. In the solitude of her car she admits to herself what she already knows in her heart; that there's nothing else she wants, no one else she wants.

Her day at Quantico is unsurprisingly busy. When she next checks her watch it's suddenly fifteen to four. She makes an excuse – a rarity in all her years with the bureau – and heads home to start on dinner. She's ridiculously excited and scorns herself for it. It won't be the first time of him coming over to dinner; she's long made it her goal to feed him, and used to stock his fridge from time to time. Nonetheless, it is to be the first time he'll be there as... She isn't entirely sure of their new status. Are they boyfriend and girlfriend now? Do people their age use such terminology? She sighs. Just one of many things they need to discuss. She hates to go all analytical about this, but they need to set some ground rules or they can kiss their careers goodbye. Well, _she_ should be the one setting those rules because if it's up to him, well... He's never given much thought about what other people are thinking. And she'll have to be adamant, because if she lets him affect her like he has at the office that morning, standing too close, his eyes smoldering... Well, she has a feeling they won't get far. But with everything they've been through over the past seven years, she knows it's vital for them to be wary of the consequences.

Once she's showered she stands in front of her dresser wrapped in a towel, deliberating. She isn't sure what to wear, what would be appropriate. After all these years together it feels silly to fret over such a meaningless thing, but she does. She doesn't want to overdo it, but at the same time she wants to look her best. It's been too long since she's even come close to similar scenario and she wants to make the best of it.

She settles on black slacks and a dark purple cashmere sweater whose cleavage was slightly too deep to wear for work. She frowns as she looks herself over in the mirror. It's too bleak, she thinks, but it's comfortable and she likes the way the cashmere feels against her skin. That settles it. She slips into flats, a pair she's owned for years but rarely wears, and sprays some perfume behind her ears and into her cleavage. She doesn't bother with makeup. It seems pointless since they're not going anywhere. She runs a hand through her hair, glad it got the chance to grow a little. Then she leaves her bedroom to check on the oven.

She cooked chicken with potatoes and vegetables because it was the best she could do under such short notice. A bottle of wine is already chilling in the fridge. She finds a few lavender-scented candles in the cupboard and lights them, then settles on her sofa with an Edith Wharton novel she has started the previous week.

Only as she stares at the printed words on the page, she realizes how nervous she is. She shakes her head, laughing softly. Thirty six years old and she's as fidgety as a teenager on prom night. It's ridiculous. She knows it's not as simple as it may be at the moment – it never is when it comes to the two of them – but for the time being she just wants to savor the newness of things. They will have plenty of time to face reality later on.

When there's a soft knock on her door she jumps with a start, realizing she must have been dozing off for a while. She shakes her head and lays her book aside, then walks to the door. She takes a deep breath and opens it just when he's about to knock again. His hand freezes halfway and he grins sheepishly at her.

"For a second I thought you were gone," he says. There's a hint of fear in the comment, as if he's actually thought it possible.

"No, I was just in the kitchen," she fibs, not wishing to give him the satisfaction of knowing she's fallen asleep again.

His relief is instant. His smile widens an inch; he hesitates, then leans closer and softly kisses her cheek. He lingers slightly longer than is probably appropriate for a supposedly innocent kiss like this. "Sorry, I still don't..." his voice trails as he slowly pulls away from her. His boyish uncertainty is endearing. "I'm not entirely sure how to go about this."

She flashes an encouraging smile at him before turning away to lock the door. When she turns back to him, he's looking around her living room as if he's never been there. It's funny. She was so sure that of the two of them, he would be one hundred per cent certain about this. Instead _she_ needs to reassure _him_. It feels strange to be on the other end of things. She isn't used to playing the believer to his skeptic.

He clears his throat; she blinks, realizing she's been staring at him. "Any, umm... constructive criticism?" he asks her.

"Just one," she replies calmly as she walks over to him. She brushes her hand against his cheek and locks her gaze with his. Her other hand she brings around his wrist, gently rearranging his arm to wrap around her waist. She slips her hand from his cheek to the back of his neck and brings his head down. When his lips meet hers halfway, she knows he gets where she's been going with this.

She remembers the wonder she's felt the previous night at how well they fit together, the concern upon leaving his apartment that nothing would ever come close, but she realizes how much she's wrong, now. The room is suddenly three times hotter. She's getting dizzier with each second their tongues battle, with every brush of his fingers against her face; fireworks all but explode inside her head. When they finally pull away they stare at each other breathlessly, and a similar expression of awe is gracing his face.

"Wow," he utters softly, and once again she's taken by how candid he is. He doesn't try to look cool or nonchalant about this. He shakes his head before she manages to point it out. "And there I was, looking for signs all morning." Then he chuckles and she's already anticipating his next quip. "Of course, it might still be jet lag."

She shakes her head, laughing softly. "No, I'm pretty sure that's not it," she says. Not having even high heels to mask their vast height difference, she's all but standing on tiptoes to brush her nose against his before fully looking at him. "Don't look any further, Mulder."

His sharp intake of breath makes her aware of what she has just said. She's as shocked as he seems that the words – carrying such painful memories – have left her lips so carelessly. And then she realizes this is it. Just like in Daniel's case, she needs to rid herself of the past in order to tend to the future.

She dismisses the mounting concern she finds in his hazel eyes with a shake of her head. She reaches for his hand and, with their fingers laced together, gives it a little squeeze. Somewhat more reassured, he smiles and leans towards her again. Their lips barely touch when a loud sound disrupts the silence. "What the hell?" he asks.

"The oven," she tells him, amused by his alarm. She watches as he strips off his leather jacket, mentally scolding herself for forgetting to take it as soon as he has entered instead of immediately pouncing on him. He lays it against the back of the sofa, but as soon as he's free of it, he walks over and takes her hand again. He brings it closer to his lips, just like he's done that morning.

"Come on," she says, nudging him gently forward. "Dinner's ready."

Whatever fears reside within her, they are slowly dissipating. Careful optimism washes over her as she leads him to the dining table, which she has set for two. This is right. This is true. They don't need any more signs. This is exactly where they are meant to be.


End file.
